The Death of Superman
by Nefertiri's Handmaiden
Summary: No one is immortal. Superman's day will come. Today is that day.


The Death of Superman

Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: I don't own Superman. If I did, I would be living on my own island in the Bahamas writing scripts for Superman movies, not writing pathetic little stories in my tiny dorm room in the middle of the night.

Author's Note: Will Clark live forever? I don't think so. He will die someday. Today is that day.

* * *

He could still remember, with shocking clarity, the day, so long ago, when he realized he was unable to lift a Boeing 747. From there, his strength had fled quickly. Unable to lift a semi-truck. Unable to hear outside the city. Unable to see through concrete. Unable to heat his cold coffee. Unable to move at super-sonic speed.

He remembered, with shocking clarity, the day he'd realized he could no longer fly. That had hurt the most: realizing that he would never soar through the sky again, dodging geese and airliners.

He remembered, with shocking clarity, the first morning in his life he'd slept through the dawn. The day he realized that the sun was no longer fueling him. The day he realized that he was dying.

He had wept with joy.

* * *

Beside his bed there was a faded photograph of Lois.

* * *

At that point, he'd been long living in the Fortress of Solitude full-time. Lois had been dead many, many years. She'd lived a long, full, exceedingly successful and happy life, dying only after she'd reached her 115th birthday. She'd sworn that come hell or high water she would see her 115th birthday.

She had lived just long enough to see the birth of her great-great-granddaughter, christened Lois Joanne after her.

The day he'd laid her in the ground was the worst day of his life. Lois, the only woman he'd ever truly loved, was dead.

Superman lived. Ever young, ever vital, he had lived. Lived until he could no longer help anyone.

He missed Lois.

* * *

The Kent Family Patriarch had many descendants. He'd already buried many of them: both his children had enough Kryptonian blood to be long lived, but even they had died almost a hundred and fifty years ago. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren had all passed even sooner, each generation more human than the last. Now, their lives had reached the normal human lifespan. He had grown accustomed to burying his blood.

These days he was attended by his many-times-great grandson and daughter, Clark and Kara. Unable to fly or super-speed, they entered and exited the Fortress through a portal he'd built to the safest place he could think of: Smallville, Kansas, where his descendents still resided on the farm he'd grown up on.

They still called him Grandpa.

He remembered the day he'd told his namesake that he was dying. The boy had looked confused for a moment.

"Dying? You? But… but…"

He'd smiled serenely. "I've been alive a long time, Clark. And even Superman has to die sometime."

After he was no longer able to be Superman, he'd stopped leaving the Fortress entirely. For more than fifty years, he had existed inside the re-creation of his home world. He spent his days in silent meditation, thinking with bittersweet joy of the family he'd buried.

Of Lois.

* * *

There had been times he had been terrified that he might live forever.

* * *

He had held every single one of his descendants on the day of their birth.

The last one, Jonathon Clark (now ancient family names, re-used for generations over), he had barely been able to make it to the hospital. Clark had come for him in a fluster, telling him breathlessly that his sister Kara had just gone into labor, but that the baby was coming quickly. He'd been so weak at that point that he'd barely been able to handle the trip through the portal, but sheer determination had gotten him to the hospital. They'd sat in the waiting room for a few hours, the youngest of his descendants at his feet as he told them the stories of their births, and how he'd been there for all of them.

How they'd, every one of them, been born in the bright morning in a room with a window facing east, and gripped his finger with just a bit more strength than a human baby should have, and opened their bright blue eyes to the glorious yellow sun.

Kara had handed Jonathon to him carefully, worry for her new son in her eyes. He'd tsked her. "I've held a lot of babies in my time, missy. I'm not going to drop this one." Gently, he'd kissed the child on his forehead. When he handed the child back his mother, he turned to her very human and awed husband and handed him the gift he'd fabricated in the Fortress.

A blue baby blanket inscribed with the insignia of the House of El.

Then he'd turned his eyes back to Kara.

"This will be the last birth I see, Kara. It is your responsibility to see the others."

She had smiled wetly, and beckoned for him to lean down so she could kiss his cheek. "Of course, Grandpa."

She reminded him strongly, in that moment, of Lois.

* * *

He died in the morning.

Died with the bright yellow sun streaming down on him, basking him in the light that sustained him for so long.

Died with every living member of the House of El at his side. Every son of El, down to little three-week-old Jonathon, wrapped in his baby blanket.

Died with the wisdom of 437 years on this planet in his eyes.

Died with no fuss, no pain, no struggle. Just a light haze, and then the light slipped quietly from his bright blue eyes.

Died feeling complete and loved. Died without a single regret. Died with a smile on his face and a single name on his lips, the summary of his life.

Lois.

* * *

They buried him in Smallville, in the plot he was supposed to have inhabited so many years ago. The writing on the headstone was completely worn away. But they laid him where they knew he belonged, at long last.

Beside his wife, the mother of his children. The love of his life.

The stones were unreadable, but it didn't matter because every member of the House of El remembered what they were.

Lois. And Clark.


End file.
